The Rendezvous
by inksmudged
Summary: Gemma and Felicity must sort out the complicated love triangles that have bound them together in more ways than one, including some juicy new Simon & Kartik drama. Told in varying POVs. [FelicityxTom GemmaxKartik GemmaxSimon]
1. Chapter 1

**Would Felicity dare to steal **_**Kartik**_**? I think she would.**

_Felicity_

We've both agreed this must be kept a secret. Gemma would not react very well for one thing, and for another… well, we're hardly serious about each other. If anyone knew the details of our acquaintance, my reputation would be shredded beyond repair, never mind the whispers that already circulate about me.

Yes – never mind the whispers. I am meeting him tonight, in a place where my name will not be known, my face unrecognized. He does not like our meeting place – wishes we didn't have to hide. But I will not risk Gemma's friendship. I'd like to say that I'm loathe to lose her companionship, but I've not gotten this far in life by lying to myself. My greatest fear is that I will never be able to enter the realms again – to see the endless blue sky of the gardens, frolic in the tall grass, bring all my wishes to fruition.

I'm sure that Gemma has no idea. She's given me no wounded looks, no vicious accusations. Though I suspect she would rather see it with her own eyes than believe hearsay and gossip. Then again, she can hardly have missed our darting glances and veiled smiles. Surely she must wonder at our sudden amity. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she's leapt to a grievous assumption.

"Felicity?" His voice interrupts my wandering thoughts. I turn to face him, lowering the hood of a rough cloak I've worn to hide my affluence. A lone girl is not safe in this neighborhood, let alone a girl of means.

Before I can greet him, he is across the room, taking me into his arms. I tilt my head expectantly, waiting for a kiss that does not come. Confused, I open my eyes to meet his gaze.

"I'm tired of hiding," he sighs.

"We musn't –"

He cuts me off. "No. You will tell your family –"

"But –"

"And we shall tell Gemma before anyone else."

"No!"

"Felicity…"

"We cannot let her know! She will hate me!"

"You're her friend," he argues. "She won't hate you. Has it occurred to you that she might be happy for us?"

I snort as skeptically and rudely as I can. "Has it occurred to you that she thinks I shuffle through men like playing cards? That her fiancé, Simon, once courted _me_? That in our first week of school together, she caught me embracing a gypsy?"

His lips press into a line of disapproval at my last confession. I try to withdraw, but his arms only tighten around me. His strength is frightening and exhilarating at once. I feel myself tensing against him, equal parts panic and delight. When he doesn't speak, I rush to reassure him.

"I'm not a whore. I haven't touched another man since the day you first kissed me." I say desperately. But his arms are still rigid around me.

"Do you remember that day?" I whisper, trying to soothe him. As I'd hoped, the furrows in his brow smooth over, and a fond smile tugs at his lips.

"I hadn't expected to find you alone…" he remembers.

"I hadn't expected to be found at all," I add, pressing my hands against his chest.

"You were crying…"

"And you just sat next to me, not speaking, and handed me your handkerchief."

He smiles softly, but his expression quickly fades and his jaw takes on a grim set. "If I'd known why you were crying, I would have hunted him down and –"

"It's not important," I say quickly. I don't want to ruin the mood of the evening; we can only meet once a week without rousing suspicion. "_This _is important." I stand on my tip-toes and press a soft kiss against his lips.

He does not kiss me back. When I pull away, his eyes are on mine, intent. "Felicity, I refuse to play this game any more. We will end the secrecy, or we will end the relationship." He doesn't meet my eyes when he says this, and I suspect he's bluffing, but I'm not willing risk it.

"This is not fair! You cannot ask me to choose between you and Gemma."

"It doesn't have to be a choice – you can have us both."

"No!" I cry in frustration. "Why don't you understand – Gemma will be furious."

"She'll understand," he argues, his embrace becoming painfully tight. "Your relationship with Gemma does not have to be mutually exclusive to a relationship with me!"

"Yes it does," I growl, wishing I could make him see. "Never the twain shall meet!"

I stagger as he suddenly releases me with a frustrated snarl. He runs his fingers through his hair in what I've come to recognize as a signature gesture. His obvious frustration only fuels my fire.

"One way or another," he says grimly, "this will end. It is your decision as to whether it will be a happy ending." The determination in his voice is not something I've heard from him before, but I know it will be impossible to argue.

"Fine," I growl, crossing my arms archly. "Let us go tell your sister that I've sunk my wicked claws into her precious brother."

A broad smile crosses Tom's face, and every last vestige of bitterness is banished. I feel my own heart warming at the sight of his happiness. Surely things can't turn out so terribly if he can smile so certainly.

"You're a terrible manipulator, Thomas Doyle," I inform him with a wounded sniff. Tom ignores my act and pulls me into his arms again.

"Perhaps that is why we get along so well. Birds of a feather and all that," he says, smiling, before he kisses me fully.

**Mwahahahaha! It was TOM. Lemme know what you think. Like the pairing, or hate it? Was Fee too OOC? This will be a very short fic – four chapters at the absolute most, but next chapter will have you find out why Fee had been crying when Tom found her, and they'll be breaking the news to Gemma. How will she react?! Tune in to find out.**

**AND REVIEW. Or the review monkeys will get you. They are very unpleasant. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm back, after a long, hard, uphill struggle with getting wireless internet put into the new house. Sooooo… here's the next update.**

_Gemma_

Tom has been acting peculiar. He paces the house silently, running his hands through his hair – a telltale sign of agitation. When he bumps into me in the parlor, he stutters to a halt, opens his mouth as if to say something, then quickly turns an about face and all but dashes from the room.

"Tom?" I call after him. When he does not answer, I follow him into the front hall where I find him peering out the front window onto the street.

"Tom?" I ask again, startling him. He jumps up and whirls around to face me, his face flushed. "What are you doing?" I demand suspiciously.

"I'm expecting a caller," Tom answers, his voice stiff. "A young lady, actually."

"Oh?" I ask with a wicked smile. If ever I've had an opportunity to torture Tom, this is surely it. "A young lady, you say?" Tom's color rises further. He rams his hand defiantly into the pocket of his suit jacket and looks at the ceiling, as if imploring heaven for help with his infuriating sister.

I feel no mercy. "Tell me about this girl," I insist. "Surely you can't expect me to give my sweet, innocent brother away to some harlot I've never even met."

My teasing riles him further than I expected. "Don't make presumptions you'll regret," Tom says, his voice icy.

I cock an eyebrow at him, but say nothing more. Tom has his back to me as he stares out the window. With an agonized sigh, he whirls around and marches back towards the parlor. I watch him go, staring after his retreating back, as if I could discern his thoughts from the tweed of his jacket.

Curious, I turn and peek out the window. What is it about this mystery woman that has Tom in such a fit of anxiety? A thousand half-formed terrors occurred to me; he's involved with a married woman, he's gotten syphilis from a street-walker, he's taken a girl's virtue – no, he's put her in the family way – or worse!

The merry sound of clip-clopping hooves interrupts my thoughts of doom, and I press myself to the window as I hear Tom racing from the parlor.

"Move!" Tom barks, trying to elbow me away from the window. I dodge him easily, peering excitedly out onto the road as a familiar carriage rolls up to the house.

"Tom," I scoff, turning away from the window. "It's Felicity Worthington. Your mystery woman has not arrived yet."

Tom shows neither disappointment nor relief. Instead, he seems even more tense, his whole posture rigid. I give him a curious look as I put my hand on the door. "You can leave now," I say, more out of confusion than malice.

Tom does not move. I pull the door open before Felicity can knock. She stands before me, hand poised to knock, framed in the doorway like a painting. Her long blond hair is pinned up neatly under a narrow-brimmed hat, and a small netted veil sways down to her sharp cheekbones. Her gown is uncharacteristically demure, a neatly tailored mauve silk, buttoned to her throat. It was the look of a matronly disciple of propriety. Still, there is no hiding her slim figure, her smooth skin, the mischievous shine to her eyes. Her disguise does not fool me.

"Felicity?" I falter back a step, uncertain. She looks immediately to Tom, who stands beside me, unmoving. I glance at Tom as well, and I catch a look pass between them – an _understanding_. And suddenly, I know who Tom's mystery woman is.

"_No_," I gasp, taking another step back. My shock is impossible to hide. I gape at the two of them, watching as Felicity steps in. I expect her to come to me, but she stands beside my brother. He relaxes when she is beside him, but his face is still tense as he regards me.

"Gemma..." Felicity begins softly.

"How?" I interrupt her. "_How_ and _when_?" I demand, unable to believe what's happening.

"Shall we sit?" Tom suggests, trying to soften the charge in the atmosphere.

Once in the parlor, with Tom and Felicity seated on the divan beside each other, Felicity takes a deep breath, and begins.

-- -- --

_Felicity – Three Months back, July_

The Doyles are having a garden party to celebrate Gemma's engagement to Simon Middleton. I was under the impression that she and that Indian boy had gone beyond a "business relationship," even if she never speaks of him with me. Her dalliance can't have been terribly important, considering how quickly she and Mr. Middleton found themselves engaged.

Mother is in Paris again and Father is away at sea, so I arrive with my cousin, Elizabeth, as an escort. As soon as we arrive, she disappears. Doubtless she has caught sight of Tom, or some other bachelor and gone off to feign womanly delicacy. At nearly twenty years old, Elizabeth is desperate to marry. She is a flighty woman, and a bit dim, in my opinion – which makes her the perfect chaperone.

Once I'm sure I've well and truly lost Elizabeth, I navigate through the throng of people, trying to find Gemma. Ann is not of a high enough status to warrant an invitation, so Gemma is my only hope for companionship today.

When I find her, she is standing stiffly beside Simon, with a fixed, unnatural smile. A gentleman I don't recognize shakes Simon's hand and gives Gemma a smile, telling her something I cannot hear. Gemma nods and her smile broadens, but it is forced and I feel uncomfortable watching her.

As soon as the gentleman moves away, I dart in.

"Gemma!" I embrace her.

"Felicity!" This time her smile is genuine, and I feel a sense of pride to know that my presence is welcome, amidst all this frippery. I step back and nod briefly towards her fiancé. "Simon," I greet him dutifully.

Simon smiles tightly. Our acquaintance has been strained since last year, though neither of us dares to acknowledge why. I feel my stomach knotting and my heart races at the unpleasant memory. To think that after all that's happened, my best friend and my worst enemy… no, worst enemy is too strong. I can't say I hate Simon, after all – we made the mistake together.

"Gemma," Tom calls from the house, "Grandmama is looking for you."

Gemma smiles apologetically at Simon, and joins Tom on the stairs before disappearing into the house.

Simon and I stand together, awkward and unable to make conversation. I survey him quietly, the illusion of haughtiness without any of the feeling to back it up. Simon was never one to let me get away with my games, which is perhaps why I… never mind.

"I see you managed to dress as a decent lady today," Simon observes quietly, with a touch of condescension in his tone. He only means to knock the haughty smirk off my face, but I am infuriated. I bristle immediately, forgetting our unspoken, though awkward, understanding.

"I see you'll never manage to be a decent gentleman."

"What have _I _done wrong?" Simon demands. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I can see his thoughts right through his eyes, wide and stricken.

"Shall I tell you what you've done wrong, Simon, dear?" My voice is a poisonous venom, and I am more than read to strike. "Shall I start at the beginning? I believe it wasn't long past this time, last year…"

Simon's expression is confident, but I can see the tension in his hands, gripped into tight fists. "Then we're bringing that up, are we?" He takes me by the arm and leads me away from the throng of people. To the idle observer, Simon is merely escorting me to where we may speak more easily. Nobody else can see the way his fingers bite painfully into my arm. Nobody else can see way his jaw clenches tight, the way he jerks me along.

When we reach the gazebo at the back of the garden, Simon releases me. I can feel the places where his fingers dug into my flesh, but I ignore them. I won't let him see any weakness from me.

"There now - we can discuss last year all you like. We can discuss the mistake we made, the consequences that could have resulted - the anxiety, the regret. _Or_, we can discuss this: Should our affair be known, I would suffer very little – a reputation as a rakehell, perhaps a dangerous Casanova, but I would still marry well, still receive my inheritance. You, my dear, would likely be disowned, and certainly be labeled a whore. And to be honest, Fee, you must have considered the consequences of what we did. You must have known it was more dangerous for you than for me. If you didn't, then you're simply an idiot, which is possibly preferable to the only other alternative."

The fury boiling in me is impossible to contain, but every single word is true. I feel the unspoken part of his sentence boiling in my throat, wrapping around my tongue, pushing at my lips. I want to scream, and want to cry, I want to rip Simon to shreds and I want him to take me into his arms.

Instead, I look back at him, my expression inscrutable, my eyes twin braziers of determined fury.

"Then let me be a whore," I say coldly. I would rather be a woman destroyed by my own devices, than a simpleton blinded by love for a boring, ordinary, dull, useless man.

Simon smiles coldly, his lips pressed in a thin line. It's not the answer he wanted. "As long as you said it first."

He shakes his head and marches from the gazebo. Gemma and Tom have both walked out of the house. I can see her searching the crowd for Simon's face. When she finds him, a dutiful smile stretches her mouth mechanically, and she crosses the lawn to him.

I turn away sharply, biting back the sob that threatens to explode from my chest. Struggling to keep my breath even, I all but throw myself onto the bench, ducking low so that the climbing roses will shelter me from the view of the other partygoers.

I bite my lip sternly, staring fiercely at the roses, determined not to cry. But my control breaks, and a single tear breaks from the wells in my eyes. I wipe it away ferociously, before it can run down my cheek. But there are plenty more to follow their comrade, and soon my face is wet and shining with silent tears. I press my face into my knees, curling into a ball, wishing desperately that I had somebody – anybody – to hold me, to tell me things would be alright.

The seconds seem to pass like hours.

In the middle of my sorrow, I hear a male voice murmur, "Blasted parties."

I look up from my skirts in time to see Gemma's brother walking into the gazebo, looking down as he runs his fingers through his hair – a gesture I will come to know so well.

As he looks up, our eyes lock, and he freezes. I feel like a statue myself, unmoving, as we stare at each other like startled deer. Finally, Tom, taking in my tear-streaked face and huddled posture, says, "Oh – I… oh. Excuse me, I was just – I mean… are you quite alright?" He gestures helplessly, looking lost.

His babbling introduction tears a rough laugh from me. I can't help being amused by his discomfort. "Not really," I say, perfectly honest for once.

Tom seems to relax, as if my honesty has brought a strange sense of ease to the atmosphere. He sits beside me on the bench, not speaking, careful to maintain a polite distance. I watch him, wary, but curious. What can he mean by this? Why isn't he making excuses and leaving?

He offers me a handkerchief. As I wipe my eyes, Tom says softly, "There now. Things can't be so bad."

I sniffle and wipe my nose, eyeing him over the handkerchief. "You don't have any idea what's happened. Perhaps my parents just died."

"Oh, I doubt that. Surely you wouldn't be at a silly garden party."

I scowl darkly. I'm hardly in the mood for logic. "Perhaps I killed them myself and I'm trying to allay suspicions with the party as an alibi."

"Perhaps," Tom agrees, though it's apparent that he's merely humoring me.

We sit in amiable silence, listening as sounds of the party drift from the garden. Finally, I can't take it any longer.

"It was because of a man."

"I thought so." The quiet confidence in his answer surprises me. Am I so transparent.

"Not a suitor," I say.

Tom doesn't have a reply for that. He looks at the roses, and I can see he's thinking. I want desperately to know what he thinks of me – does his mind ring with the word _whore_?

When he speaks again, I realize that I've been inching towards him, desperate for his approval. I'm practically in his lap, and he is quite aware – his eyes are wide with unanswered questions. "I – is there anything I can do to help?" he asks, distracted by my proximity.

I lean closer, searching his eyes.

"Perhaps…"

And he knows. He kisses me, with a touch as soft as a butterfly's wings. And no more.

"It'll be alright," he murmurs, taking my hand.

-- -- --

_Gemma – three months later, October_

"This is ridiculous," I say sharply, unable to believe what I'm hearing. That Felicity and Simon… and now Felicity and Tom? And have they…? I don't dare to ask, though I'm burning with curiosity.

Felicity blanches and I see her take Tom's hand. My eyes narrow dangerously, and I almost have the bravery to ask what I want to know.

"Have you…" I start, but I find I lack the courage after all.

"Yes?" Tom prompts after I trail off.

"Have you…" I lick my lips nervously. "Have you set a date for the wedding, then?"

Felicity and Tom look at each other, both of their eyes wide with surprise. I can't help the unkind smirk that crosses my lips.

"Ah…"

**Heehee. Hope you enjoyed. Next installment will involve DrAmA with Kartik and Simon! Stay tuned kiddos. And – if you're interested in my original work, I often put stuff up on my livejournal. Right now I've only got a few things, but there will be more in the future. Feel free to friend me if you have one too. The link is in my profile. :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed so far! Seriously, I live for reviews. I have an unhealthy habit of constantly checking to see if I've gotten any more reviews. So… please feed my habit. **

**Oh, and a few of you might have been confused by Simon and Felicity's conversation in the last chapter. I was trying to make it clear that Simon and Felicity had slept together. I didn't want to say it outright, because I didn't think that either of them would have, the times being what they were.**

**So… yeah. Keep that in mind for future chapters.**

_-_

_Gemma_

"Well…" Tom looks helplessly at Felicity. Her grey eyes narrow.

"There's no wedding date," she states coldly.

The word wedding brings my own marriage to mind, only a month away. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Simon, and what Felicity has implied.

I feel as if I've been struck with a thunderbolt when I realize what's happened. Before I can even process my thoughts, I'm on my feet, finger pointed to Felicity with all the superior accusation I can muster.

"I knew you didn't want me to marry Simon," I snarled, "but I never thought you'd sink so low as to make up ridiculous lies, Felicity Worthington!"

Felicity's normally haughty veneer vanishes in an instant, and she looks for all the world like a broken doll, clinging to Tom for support. My temper is not deterred in the least. I know Felicity, I know the dangerous, manipulative creature she is. After all, it was I who watched her strip naked and kill a frightened doe with her bare hands, desperate to have things her way – to wield the power.

Tom is on his feet in an instant, standing between the two of us like Felicity's knight. "Mind your manners, Gemma!"

I ignore his fury, stepping around him to fix my gaze on Felicity. "You're angry because I won't do what you want – don't think I can't see right through your ridiculous façade."

Felicity stands slowly, making a show of hiding her pain behind a mask of polite apology. "I shouldn't have come. I'll show myself out." Her eyes are full of a heavy sadness as she turns away.

"Don't look at me that way," I snap, feeling no remorse.

"Felicity." Tom catches her by the arm, trying to pull her back. She shakes free of him with a glare. He should have known better than to try and force her. Power is the only thing Felicity understands, and if she's not on top, then she'll fight tooth and nail until she is.

As I listen to her footsteps echo down the front hall, I am filled with a self-righteous fury. Tom has left me, trailing pathetically after her. I can hear him murmuring, trying to persuade her to stay. But the inevitable sound of a closing door silences his argument. Moments later, he reappears in the parlor, absolutely livid. He looks ready to strangle me, and for a moment, I fear he might.

"How could you speak to her like that?"

"What do you mean?" I demand. "Telling her the truth? Is that my terrible fault?"

Tom shakes his head angrily and marches from the parlor, not bothering to reply.

-

That evening, dinner is a stilted affair. Grandmama sees the tension between Tom and I, but she cannot divine the source. She tries to subtly draw it out of us, but her artless questions only fuel both of our tempers and our furious silence stretches over the table like a shroud.

When I can finally retire for the evening, I can barely contain my relief. I climb the stairs as quickly as I can in a corset, desperate to rid myself of the hateful thing. I enter my room, and let out a petulant sigh when I realize that the new maid, Molly, is not there to help me out of my corset. I'm too impatient to track her down – I'll unlace it myself.

Before I can even reach for the corset strings, a strong arm snakes around my waist, jerking me back, and my scream is muffled by a hand over my mouth. I struggle viciously, praying that Tom or Grandmama will hear the noise and come to investigate, but my attacker kicks the door shut and squeezes my ribs with such force that I think I might faint.

I forget my struggles, instead, gasping desperately for air.

"I won't hurt you."

The voice in my ear is familiar, though I've not heard it for months. Since my engagement, in fact.

"Kartik," I sigh, my voice softer than I mean for it to be.

He releases me and I whirl to face him. He is just as I remember, though he looks weary. His dark curls fall into his eyes, highlighting the dark circles there. He smells faintly of horses, and I can't help but wonder how many stables he's slept in.

"Miss Doyle." Kartik's reply to my breathy greeting seems oddly formal.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to hide my breathlessness.

"I came to…" he trails off abruptly, and I wonder if I don't detect a faint blush in his cheeks. He looks up suddenly and says, "I'm worried about you."

Alarm slices through the giddiness in my heart. "What do you mean? Is it the realms? What's –"

"No," Kartik interrupts smoothly. "The realms are fine. Circe is still locked in the well. Phylon sends his love." His tone rings with sarcasm. I know he's never been to the realms – he only knows Phylon from my stories.

"Kartik, what –"

"I'm here because of… because…" He scowls, and suddenly bursts out angrily, "Because you're making a mistake! You can't marry Middleton!"

I take a step back, stunned. "What?"

Kartik closes the distance between us, speaking earnestly. "You can't marry him, Gemma. It would be a terrible mistake."

I feel resentment simmering. Just as Felicity, he fears what Simon's influence will do to me. Are his motives the same? Does he fear that Simon's influence will diminish his? That the new Order will be forgotten as soon as I say my vows? Or… is it something else? Something dare not even think for fear of bursting the delicate bubble of hope that has swelled in my chest.

"Why would it be a mistake, pray tell," I demand frostily, though I feel anything but.

"You're not an ordinary girl, Gemma. Dull society parties, endless gossip, bearing heirs… that's not what you're meant for." There is a quiet determination in his voice that moves me more than any of Felicity's snide comments about Simon ever did.

I laugh weakly. "The sad fact is, I'm entirely ordinary. I just happen to have an extraordinary secret."

"The fact that you are the High Priestess of the Order does not distinguish you in any way?"

"I, well – yes, it does. It's just that… well, I haven't exactly had much call for it, lately, have I?"

"Gemma." Kartik's hands are on my shoulders, his fingers gripping tight. It's as if he wants to shake me, but all I can thick of his the feel of his hands, the heat of his skin, the fullness of his lips…

We're leaning into each other, and beneath the smell of horse, there is that same mysterious spice that has always enchanted me. I forget about everything as his lips touch mine, there is no Tom and Felicity, no Simon, no wedding – there is only Kartik, the heat of his body, the smell of his skin, the feel of his lips.

"Gemma Doyle!"

Kartik leaps away from me with a start. Tom stands in the doorway, so agog that his jaw might easily come unhinged.

**-**

**Lalalala. Love the Karma drama!**

**By the way, I mentioned it in my profile, but I'll say it here too – I don't know if I'll be finishing "Old Secrets." I've really lost the motivation and the insipiration for it. Although, I feel bad, because I'm only four or five chapters from being done with it. Anyways, just thought I'd let people know, so they can take it off their alerts. If enough people badger me, I might find some hidden source of inspiration and try to finish it up.**

**Oh, and PLEASE REVIEW. I know I'm getting a fair amount of hits. It takes me a while to type these up – it only takes you two seconds to make me feel good about myself. :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm just on a roll of updates this week. For me, anyway. I'm well aware that I'm a neglectful and lazy updater. Learn to love it. ;-P So, my lovelies, read on…**

Tom's outburst echoes sharply through the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Kartik, chin raised, arms crossed. There is a wary tension in his body, as if he might spring at any moment, tackling Tom.

"Thomas?" Grandmama's voice floats up the stairs, groggy and confused. "Thomas, why are you shouting? Has Gemma been hurt?"

Tom throws a skeptical glance at Kartik before he answers. "Gemma's quite alright, Grandmama. _I_ am the victim. Your graceless granddaughter nearly flattened me on her way down the hall."

Even with a flight of stairs between us, I can hear Grandmama's exasperated sigh. "Gemma, do mind your feet. Mr. Middleton will hardly want a wife with no sense of grace."

I feel myself paling at the thought of Simon. What have I done – to be alone in my bedroom with a man is cause enough to call off a wedding, but to be caught embracing him – and an Indian man, at that! I'd be thrown onto the street, stripped of my family name, my inheritance, everything!

Tom steps into the room, interrupting my thoughts by pulling the door shut with a gentle "click."

Kartik resituates himself, so that he is standing between Tom and I. I'm about to brush him away, to assure him that his gallantry is unnecessary, when I catch sight of Tom's face. His expression is absolutely livid. If I thought shouting at Fee infuriated him, then this could likely stop his heart. Or mine, if he can get around Kartik.

When he speaks, Tom's voice is a low hiss, every bit as dangerous and terrifying as an adder's. "Do you care to enlighten me, Gemma? Surely you have a good reason for embracing a strange man in your bedroom, when you are engaged to be married to Simon Middleton – the son of a viscount, if I may remind you." He forces a false civility into his tone, as if we're discussing the Queen's health over biscuits and tea. The resulting mixture of fury and politeness is more ominous than shouting.

"I…" I can't find any words. I have no excuse. Tom is only accusing me of the very same thing I was anguishing over, not half a moment before.

Kartik takes in my stricken face and defeated posture. The hardness in his expression softens, and he turns towards Tom with earnestness. "Please, your sister has done nothing wrong. I concealed myself in her room, and when she entered, I pushed myself onto her."

Tom looks at me, and I can see the fury in his eyes abating. I am tempted to let Kartik take the fall for me, if only it will soften the harsh contempt in Tom's face. He's never looked at me this way – he's always been arrogant, condescending, impatient, and judgemental with me. But all those rolled together are nothing like the utter loathing with which he regards me now.

"I'd dearly love to call you out for it," Tom informs Kartik archly. "But I have no choice but to ask for this to be kept secret. It would ruin Gemma's –"

"Tom…" I say weakly. No matter how it hurts me, I can't let Kartik lie for me. I can't let him dash in clean all the mess, when I'm the one who's muddied things up. "He didn't attack me," I confess, cheeks flaming. "I – you see – it was mutual!" I finally blurt, feeling as though I might burst into flames for the blush that has consumed me from scalp to toes.

Tom leans away from me, surveying me slowly.

"Don't lie, Gemma," Kartik says, his calm tone more convincing than my own shaky confession.

Tom looks between the two of us slowly, not certain who to believe. "Gemma. What happened? The truth."

"I told the truth. He… I… we kissed." Ah, there goes that wonderful flaming blush again. Surely all this sweating should have some benefit – livening my complexion, perhaps.

"That is all that happened?"

"Yes." I nod, desperate for him to believe me. Most of the loathing has faded from his expression, and now he seems primarily contemplative. He is silent for a long time, worrying his lower lip as he considers the two of us.

Finally, he speaks. "Gemma, you are an absolute fool to endanger your future so thoroughly. You, sir," he gives Kartik a sharp look, "should be locked in irons for breaking into our home and secreting yourself in an unmarried girl's room. However, as this needs to be kept unknown, for Gemma's sake, we are at an impasse. If you will agree to never speak of this, I will agree not to go to authorities." Kartik is unmoving, expressionless.

Tom is stronger and more assured than I've ever seen him. I find I'm torn – half of me is warmed by Tom's obvious care for me, while the other half is annoyed by the way he treats me as an incompetent nitwit.

Tom is already lost in thought again, figuring out the damage control. "If anybody saw him come into the house, we'll need to have a story prepared. We may have to tell Grandmama, just in case…"

The annoyed half wins out. "Tom," I say suddenly, stepping away from Kartik. "Surely, Grandmama would love to meet the young lady you've been courting."

"Gemma." There is a warning in his tone that reminds me so much of Mother.

"Certainly you, of all people, can understand that some things are not easily explained to your family," I continue.

"What are you saying, Gemma?" Tom's eyes flicker between me and Kartik, and I can see the understanding dawning on him.

"I'm saying that everyone has secrets, Tom. Ask Felicity – she's got more than you can count."

"I think I can count more of them, than you," Tom says impatiently. His annoyance has him reverting to his formal snobbery. "Miss Worthington is not inclined to meet my family just yet."

"Then Kartik is not inclined to be treated like a criminal."

Tom sighs, dropping his shoulders in resignation. "Fine. You win, Gemma. Just… consider what you're doing. You're engaged to a respectable, wealthy man. Don't throw that away."

With an effort that seems Herculean, Tom turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. The click, though soft, echoes in my ears like a gunshot. The silence that follows is like tidal wave, rushing to fill the space where our argument once hung in the air.

Kartik crosses the room and sinks into the rocking chair by my bureau, breaking the silence with the rustling of his worn clothing. I sit across from him, on my bed, taking in his appearance with the desperation of a starving man who's stumbled across a platter of veal.

His eyes are dark, weary, distant as he stares out my window. His clothes are ragged at the hems, coming loose at the seams. The knees of his trousers have been patched multiple times, and still they are wearing through. His suspenders are several sizes too big for him, and have been knotted several times to compensate for the extra length. His hair, still dark and curly, is a mess of tangles.

"Kartik," I say softly.

He looks away from the window, catching my gaze with soul-jarring force. I have to take a breath before I can speak again.

"I… I don't want to marry Simon."

He says nothing, but his eyes are desperate, boring into mine so forcefully, that I feel the urge to back away. But I don't move.

"When you left, I thought I'd never see you again."

"So did I," he admits, his voice soft and rough. A thrill runs up my spine; I sit ramrod straight.

"And Simon… he was kind to me, and he made interesting conversation, and he liked me – he made me feel wanted."

Kartik looks away, back out the window. I can tell his is still listening by the way he clenches his jaw. The tendons in his neck stand out against the skin as he strains towards the window, as if he could fly through it like a hawk. I want to sit in his lip, trace the muscles under his skin until he relaxes, kiss him until he smiles.

I stay where I am.

"Simon would be a good husband," I say carefully, gauging his reaction. His expression is neutral, but it is strained, as if held on by pins that are seconds away from coming loose.

"But… he's not you."

All tension fades from his body, and Kartik turns to face me, his expression dumbstruck.

"What? What are you saying, Gemma?"

_How many times will I be asked that, this evening?_ "I'm saying – well… I think, I might love you."

**What a perfect place to end a chapter! Heehee. Next chapter, we'll find out why Kartik had to leave in the first place, and what exactly brought him back. (More than you might think.) Plus, how far HAVE Tom and Felicity gone? (fyi: that's what Gemma was really trying to get at when she asked them if they had a wedding date yet.) And WTF has Ann been up to all this time?**

**Remember when I said this would be short? I guess I lied. Because I've been sucked in hardcore. Plus, I have a new AGaTB fic rumbling around in my head, so once I get a few chapters typed up, I'll start posting that one.**

**Until next time!  
****inksmudged**


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